


Borrowed Time

by Clockwork



Series: Training the Pet [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clockwork/pseuds/Clockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim faces the consequences of his actions. Both on Sherlock as well as his own psyche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed Time

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning. Mention of suicide and the fallout from it. Story contains elements of forced drug use, as well as dubcon. Be warned.

It had been so many months since Sherlock’s disappearance that even the papers had given up making speculations except on the slowest of news days. Rarely did they make comment on the fact that the Holmes brother still had not been seen. Those reports that did speak of it were buried deep within the publication and had begun to hint on an extended stay in a mental health facility against the man’s wishes but for the good of his family. 

Even if Watson came forward with the truth, no one would believe him. That was if Mycroft didn’t have him stopped before he breathed a word. Moriarty might well show his hand when it came to how easily he would offer violence to another, but it was Mycroft Holmes that it seemed the good doctor feared.

All of this played through Jim’s head as he waited, each second ticking away like a time bomb. It was his very own timer ticking down from being wound much too tight and should it reach zero, there was no way of knowing who would answer in the wake of his anger. He only knew who would be spared. That was if the man himself lived through his own attempts at ending his life.

Pacing his office, Jim fought the urge to storm down to where his own man worked on Sherlock. He was not without medical knowledge himself and could well provide help though he wondered one thing. What had Moran seen in his own face in those few moments that had led him to banish Jim to his office? 

Stepping through to the bathing room, he was barely conscious of flicking on the light to reveal his image in the looking glass. It took only a moment to realize just what it was the other man had seen.

His hair mussed, tousled and forgotten in a way that Jim never allowed. His skin pale, seemingly more so by wide, dark eyes that seemed to be all midnight black irises and bloodshot whites of his eyes. It wasn’t even the splattering of blood that speckled his cheek and continued across his jaw that was alarming. It was that in those moments of panic before the other man had arrived, Jim had shown his hand to any and all that may have seen. A nurse who wouldn’t speak. A consulting detective that would not remember, even if he lived.

And shown to the memory of a man that might never once mention what he’d seen, and yet he would always remember. Remember and perhaps gloat, using it when it was most to his advantage. 

For a moment, Jim considered leaving the blood where it was, already dried against his skin yet he knew that he had to face Moran, and eventually Sherlock, as himself wholly and truly. 

Determined and ignoring the slight tremor that ran down his arms and through to the very tips of his fingers, Jim set to work at setting himself to rights. A rag and soap did well in removing the blood, and the bit of scrubbing left a hint of ruddiness to his skin that gave his visage of life to his pale skin. Taking his time as he might first thing in the morning to present the proper image, he straightened his tie, fingers combed his hair neatly back into place with a bit of water and smoothed out the wrinkles from his jacket the best he could. 

Finally the image before him was closer to himself, leaving Jim with a bit more sense of control over the situation. Holding his hand out before him, he waited, watching the tips of his fingers for any hint of tremble or tremor. When he saw none, he nodded at his reflection.

He was offering Sherlock a life free to explore his basest desires. A life wherein he didn’t have to be a Holmes or Mycroft’s brother or to deny a desire that had dragged him down time and again to be hidden until he was no longer a disappointment to his family and acquaintances. 

“If he’s such a weak fool as to throw that away,” Jim said to his own reflection, lip curling in a sneer. “Then that is his folly and not my own.”

“Counting your eggs a bit earlier, aren’t you, Moriarty?”

The voice came from a bit of a distance, across the length of the main room, and Jim realized Moran was standing by the door. Unwilling to enter without being beckoned within, there was no way of knowing how long he had been standing there, listening to Jim repair himself from the moment of panic that had settled over him when he’d seen Sherlock ashen and bloody.

Stepping out, he closed the door of the bathroom behind him, barely sparing the man a glance as he moved to his desk. Settling into the buttery soft leather of the high backed chair, he only then glanced to where Moran stood, gesturing him in with a quick flick of his fingers.

“Knocking will get you much further than loitering,” he pointed out, nodding to the chair before him. “Now, do tell. How is my guest?”

“If that’s how you treat guests, remind me never to get you a puppy,” he said, smirking as he dropped into the chair, crossing his legs so one ankle rested on the opposite knee. He sprawled as if he owned the place, comfortable in his own skin and his place with the man before him.

“You are my puppy, so try and remember what you’ve seen,” he said, the words out there before he’d thought about them.

“Oh trust me, I’m remembering. As for Sherlock there…”

“Don’t use his name.”

“Fine. As for your guest, he’s going to live. The cut was pretty deep but didn’t knick enough vital to do what he wanted. Good thing he hadn’t a knife.” He shifted, shaking his head. “Takes a bit to do that kind of damage with a piece of pottery. I did field stitches and it’s going to leave a wicked scar. Not much to be done about that. To get down deep enough, he sawed through the layers. Might be what saved him though. The blood loss made him pass out before he got too deep, though I got to say, it wasn’t that much blood.”

Jim wanted to argue but the amount of blood was different between what could kill, and what made him panic and pale as he had. Of course, he also knew it had been more than the blood loss that left him weak and it only confirmed that he would have to be careful with the doses and the nutrients that he fed his pet.

“What will he need now?”

“Time. Rest. The wounds will have to be watched closely for infection. I did the best I could with what I had. You would do well to provide some sort of painkiller with whatever else it is you’re giving him,” he said, giving Jim a knowing look as he touched the crook of his own elbow. “The marks are clear and fresh, but apparently not doing enough to keep down his darker… impulses.”

“That is none of your business.”

“I’m sure it’s not, but I’m giving you my best advice. Unwarranted that it is.” He pushed to his feet. “And on that note, I’m going to go back to what I was doing. None of your business,” he said with a bark of a laugh as if Jim had asked. 

Pausing by the door, he looked back at his boss. “Another bit of unwarranted advice. Get in there with him. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s that room I’m betting that is getting to him. I would kill myself too if I had to spend day in and day out locked in that hell.”

Jim said nothing as Moran shrugged before slipping out of the room. He didn’t need to hear the front door close in his wake to know he was gone. He wouldn’t linger, never did. 

The needle with Sherlock’s next dose weighed heavily in his pocket but it wasn’t what he reached for as he opened his desk drawer. Many vials lined the depths, but his hand went unerringly for one. The pain killer was mild, what he’d intended to give in the early days should Holmes need it. 

Now he would use it to take the edge off from the pain of Sherlock’s own doing. Yet knowing it was the man’s own fault, as he drew the clear liquid into the syringe, he realized that he could use this to his advantage, as well as take Moran’s advice without quite telling him he had.

Pocketing the second syringe, he made his way to Sherlock’s room. 

Maybe that was the first problem. He had come to thinking of this as Sherlock’s room. If what he wanted was a true pet, and not a wild animal caged for his own care and safety – as well as of that of others – then he needed to stop seeing this as a home. It was a cell, perhaps even a cage until he was well behaved, but not a room or a home.

Slipping into the room, he realized he hadn’t asked Moran what had become of the nurse, nor did he care. That wasn’t his concern. The woman could die in the street for all he cared. By morning he would have her replaced with someone that would be more careful with something so precious.

Staring down at Sherlock’s face, Jim realized just how true that was. His pet, his Sherlock, was precious to him and he needed to be more careful with his care and upbringing.

Settling onto the edge of the bed, he was careful with needle he used, injecting the other man with a carefully measured dose of pain medication. His eyes stayed on Sherlock’s face, noting the flutter of his lashes, the easily seen movement of his eyes beneath bluish lids. The skin seemed so delicate that it might well split if Jim laid even the more delicate tip of a finger against that veined flesh.

Everything about him seemed so dangerously close to shattering, and the thready breath that rattled through him did little to disabuse that notion. 

His body ached for the way he was perched, using thigh muscles to keep him balanced on that thin edge but he wouldn’t try and move Sherlock. Not for now. He stayed perched there until Sherlock’s breathing grew deeper, less labored and then he withdrew the second syringe.

Carefully he injected the heroin dose, knowing that without it his body would begin to react to the lack of the addictive substance and that would do him nothing for his healing process. 

His fingers lightly touched Sherlock’s brow, stroking as tenderly as he might down along the sharp line of his face, those dangerous cheekbones.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, making that vow then and there. “Until I return you to him, I will take care of you.”

No one would ever see him in that moment. He wouldn’t even let Sherlock see him in this moment. All those years of watching him, stalking him without a word and now he had him and knew it was nothing more than borrowed time.


End file.
